


white alligator

by leoandsnake



Series: un jour je serai de retour [8]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, Kim POV, M/M, everyone trying to figure out what kim's deal is and kim just wants to be alone, harry and jean married bickering, kim and jean talk about their love lives and flirt a little but mostly depress each other, kim being harry and jean's auxiliary boyfriend, precinct 41 party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29834889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoandsnake/pseuds/leoandsnake
Summary: Jean puts out his second cigarette. “I would move on if I knew what was good for me, but obviously I don’t."“If life were about moving on, we’d all be a lot better at it,” Kim says.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Kim Kitsuragi & Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare, Kim Kitsuragi & Jean Vicquemare
Series: un jour je serai de retour [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095374
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	white alligator

Jean mentions to Kim on Friday morning that he’s having a get-together that night in his apartment, and Kim is invited, if he wants to come. “There’ll be cops,” he says, “and people who aren’t cops. And you’re right downstairs, now, so you can get blitzed if you want. No drive home.”

As much as Kim appreciates the invitation, that sounds like something he doesn’t want to do. He’s spent all week moving and pulling 11-hour shifts, and he’s been looking forward to capping off his Friday by lying down on his couch, drinking one to two beers, and listening to the spring TipTop Tournée race results on the radio.

So he says, “Sure, I’ll think about it,” and then immediately starts seeding his tiredness into every interaction with Jean. During their task force morning meeting, he yawns twice and rubs his eyes three times. In conversation later with Jean, he affects a bleary squint. By the time he gets home around 7, he’s convinced he’s gotten away with it, and will be able to believably apologize to Jean whenever he sees him next. ‘Sorry,’ he’ll say. ‘I came home and fell asleep right away. I woke up at 10 and I didn’t even know where I was.’

But he’s only been home for about 45 minutes when his newly set-up telephone rings.

Kim steps over an open box of books on the floor and goes to answer it. “Hello?”

“Get your ass upstairs, you recluse,” says Jean’s voice. Kim can hear voices and music in the background. “We’ve been working like crazy all week, you need to blow off some steam.”

Kim momentarily holds the phone back from his face as if physically slapped by Jean’s abruptness. “I have my steam handled, detective,” he says after a beat.

“Being alone in your apartment isn’t good for you, and you’re at the 41st now, we’re going to grind you into a nub if you let us. Just come upstairs for like half an hour. Talk to your coworkers outside of work, mingle.”

These all sound like orders, which is pissing Kim off in a distinctly old-man way. Like _excuse me, Sonny Jim, but who do you think you are?_ Jean’s right, though. He’s being a dick about it, but he’s right.

“Maybe,” Kim says, not wanting to cede defeat outright. “Maybe I’ll come up for half an hour. I still have some unpacking to do.”

“Oh, do you?” Jean says, sounding amused. (Kim has been rebuffing Jean’s offers to come down and help him unpack all week.)

“You know, I’m starting to understand why you and Harry are partners,” Kim says.

“Yes, I’m just a different flavor of pain in the ass,” Jean says. “Well, whenever you’re done with your unpacking, I have a beer waiting for you.”

He hangs up before Kim can respond.

“Asshole,” Kim says aloud to no one, but he’s smiling when he says it.

/

When Kim goes up to the third floor, he can hear the party before he gets down the hall to Jean’s door. He pauses outside the door, wondering if he has time to change his mind, then knocks anyway.

The voices inside fade in volume for a moment, and then Kim hears Jean call, “Someone open it, my hands are full.”

The door swings open to reveal a drunken Sundance. “Kitsuragi!” he exclaims.

“ _Kitsuragiiii_ ,” many other voices bellow from inside, some more drunk than others, but all sounding pretty drunk. They also sound fond, like they’re happy to see him, but Kim doesn’t put too much stock into that. Everyone likes everyone when they’re drunk. This is why people drink.

“You’re just in time, lieutenant,” Sundance says, pulling him inside.

“For what?” Kim says, squinting as his eyes adjust to the low light.

“Literally nothing, I just like to say that to people,” Sundance says.

The overhead lights are off, but there are a few lit lamps scattered around Jean’s apartment, giving it a cozy ambiance. Kim can see faces both familiar and unfamiliar. People are sprawled over his couch, piled in chairs, sitting on the floor while they drink beer. Two pretty women are deep in conversation by the sink. This looks exactly like every party Kim attended in his late twenties and early thirties.

Of the familiar faces are some other task force members: Mack, Chester, Trant, and Maggie. No Judit — presumably she’s at home with her family.

Kim sees some other cops who he recognizes but hasn’t met yet, and every non-cop person at this party seems to be an attractive woman, which confirms his suspicion that this is one of those parties that happen just to get young people laid. In that case, he couldn’t be more out of place, being neither young nor having any desire to be laid.

Jean comes over to him and puts a cold beer in his hand. “Thanks for gracing us with your presence,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

He’s so much more at ease when Harry isn’t around that it’s downright depressing to witness. When Harry is around (or isn’t around and is in danger of some kind) Jean seems poised in a constant emotional flinch, like someone in a hospital waiting room who’s expecting bad news.

“Where’s your partner?” Kim says, sipping the beer.

He asks half out of curiosity and half out of selfishness. Despite all of Harry’s flaws, he likes him, and finds him easy to talk to — at least in comparison to the likes of Mack and Chester.

“I don’t always know where he is,” Jean says, sounding defensive.

Chester, who’s sitting in an easy chair a few feet away, makes a farting noise with his mouth in response to this.

“Fuck you,” Jean says to him, sticking a foot out and kicking him in the arm. He’s much less drunk than everyone else at his party, but clearly tipsy. He back turns to Kim and says, “Fine, he’s at a 12-step.”

“Really?” Kim says, surprised.

“Yes. He’s gone to meetings before, I wouldn’t get too excited about it. Plus I basically forced him to go. I told him he wasn’t allowed to be here tonight, since we’d be drinking, and he asked me to suggest an alternative activity. I think after that he’s going over to that Lena woman’s to talk about the phasmid.”

“Right, he was telling me he planned to see her this weekend,” Kim says.

“I’d like to meet her at some point,” Jean says. “This pale shit, I can’t cope with, but the phasmid was interesting.”

“I should probably go see her too,” Kim says. “I owe her an apology, I was a little bit of a dick. In my defense, it was because I was still living in a world where logic actually applied to my day-to-day life.”

Jean cracks a smile. “Have you smoked your daily cigarette yet?” he says.

Kim smiles back. “No.”

“Would you like to go smoke with me?”

“Yes.”

Jean smiles back and starts ushering Kim back toward the door that he just came in from. “Be good,” he yells over his shoulder. “No one break my stereo. _Mack_.”

“I will do my best to not break your stereo,” Mack shouts back.

Jean goes to grab a jacket from the hook by the door, but Kim says, “You won’t need one, it’s still nice out.”

“You’re wearing one,” Jean points out.

Kim glances down at his bomber jacket. “I’m always wearing one.”

Outside it’s well past twilight, but light pollution makes the city grow almost as brightly as it does during the day. Jean and Kim go around the side of his building and lean into an alcove, where Kim sets his beer down on the sidewalk so he can focus on smoking. The glow of their cigarettes catching and lighting swims in Kim’s tired vision, mingling with the glow from the massive neon signs on the bar and head shop across the street.

Jean takes a drag and assesses Kim. “So you actually came,” he says. “Thanks. I was convinced you were going to blow me off.”

“That’s probably because I was about to blow you off when you called,” Kim says with a grin.

Jean blows smoke at him. “Why?” he exclaims, and nudges Kim’s foot with his own. “Do you hate the 41st already? I can’t blame you that much if you do.”

“No, I’m just rusty,” Kim says.

“Rusty at what?”

“This.”

“Smoking?”

Kim laughs. “Parties. Gatherings.”

Jean nods in response, looking out at the road, his eyes reflecting the red glow of traffic lights. “I wish I was like you,” he says, “but I’m not. I need people around, constantly.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself about that,” Kim says. “It’s a good thing.”

Jean doesn’t reply, just brings his cigarette to his mouth again.

“So,” Kim says, smoking his own, “is this a get-everyone-laid party?”

Jean laughs. “What?”

“You know, you bring your single friends together, get them drunk…”

“Are _you_ one of my single friends?”

Kim meets his eyes. “For the most part.”

“‘For the most part,’” Jean repeats. “Very cryptic.”

Kim says nothing, just leans against the cool brick behind him and smokes.

“I don’t really care if anyone gets laid,” Jean says, “although I’m guessing _they_ probably came here to get laid. I think Mack is going to fuck Elaine, but I only say that because they’ve done that before.”

“Is Elaine…”

“The blonde. She’s an attorney for the Coalition courts, a prosecutor.”

“Isn’t Torson married, though?”

“Lieutenant,” Jean says with an indulgent smile.

“Doesn’t matter?”

“No, they both cheat on each other constantly. I’m pretty sure they’re only married for tax purposes.”

Kim nods, continuing to smoke. A breeze blows by, and Jean cups his hand protectively around his cigarette.

“I would love to be a carefree single person,” Jean muses.

“Do you not consider yourself single?” Kim says.

He really has no idea what the deal is between Jean and Harry. Of course, Harry gives him way too much information, and does so constantly, but Kim can’t tell what of it is real and what of it is delusional or hallucinatory.

Jean laughs, getting a wry look. “Very complicated question.” He blows smoke out through his nostrils. “I don’t know. I’d like to be on the prowl, I think, is what I mean. Except not really, because I never actually enjoyed that when it was happening. I’m just tired of being yoked to Harry with no resolution, for years and years. First, waiting for him to notice I was waiting for him, then waiting for him to get his shit together…” He trails off.

“I can understand that,” Kim says.

Jean cuts his eyes at Kim. “Alright, you have to give me something,” he says. “It’s not fair that I’m an open book and you’re still such a mystery.”

“We talked for hours in Martinaise, detective — what else do you want to know about me?”

“I want statistics,” Jean says. “Biographical information. I want to open a file on you.”

Kim laughs at this. “Fine,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette butt on his heel. “I can relate to being yoked. I’ve been in an on-and-off relationship for eleven years… currently, we’re off again. ”

“Tell me more,” Jean says, ashing his cigarette with a quick twitch of his fingers.

“He works in advertising,” Kim says. “He’s very smart. He’s kind. He isn’t sure what he wants in life.” Neither is Kim, of course.

“Where is your smart, kind adman now, lieutenant?”

“Vredefort, for work. He’s been there for months. He asked me to come with him… I said no.” Kim spreads his hands. “Off again.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Jean says.

“It happens. It’s life.”

“Well, I don’t know if there’s anyone here tonight who’s homosexually inclined,” Jean says. “Besides you and I.”

He seems to grow self-conscious after saying this, so Kim winks at him to put him at ease. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I have no intention of violating bro code.”

Jean laughs at this. “You would be a much better boyfriend than Harry, I can tell you that much,” he says, putting his own cigarette out on the wall behind him.

“Don’t be so sure,” Kim says.

“Please… we’re talking about the man who once threw a billiards ball at me.” Off of Kim’s concerned look, Jean adds, “He missed by a mile, don’t worry.”

Kim is still a little worried, but decides to let it go. “What I lack in drunken aggression, I make up for in emotional unavailability,” he says.

“That’s actually my other favorite quality in men,” Jean says. “Stop hitting on me.”

Kim grins. “What do you like in women?”

“God, I don’t even know,” Jean says. “Kindness? I can never make relationships with women work for very long. I always start to think they’re better off without me, so I string them along and then vanish.”

“That’s what I usually do to men,” Kim says, picking his beer up from where he set it down and taking a swig. It’s not as cold as it was before, but it’s still beer.

“In between bursts of the Vredefort man?”

“In between bursts of the Vredefort man, correct.”

Jean lights another cigarette, seemingly without even thinking about it. Kim begins to itch for a second one, and drinks his beer instead.

“Trant might be a little gay,” Jean says. “I’ve never asked, I always assumed he was just weird. But he’d be interested in giving men a whirl, at the very least. If he hasn’t already.”

“You don’t need to get me laid,” Kim says.

“Well, now that I’ve taken myself off the table.”

Kim knows he’s joking, but still feels compelled to clarify, “I never expected you to be on the table.”

Jean smokes more without seeming to hear him. “This Harry thing,” he says, “has me very fucked up. I think about him day and night. I really sort of hate him, most of the time, and yet I can’t live without him. He’s the only person I want to talk to about most things. He's ruined me sexually for everyone else, I’m not even interested in other people anymore.”

Kim studies his face, which is open and plaintive. He starts to speak, then stops himself, almost quite literally biting his tongue.

“If you have something to say, you should say it, lieutenant,” Jean murmurs.

“I don’t like to get involved in these things.”

“Oh, you are _involved,_ ” Jean scoffs. “Don't kid yourself. You are very much involved, so please say your piece.”

“Well, what you’re describing sounds to me like love. As far as I know, that’s what being in love is like.”

Jean looks devastated by this, as if Kim has hit him with a car.

“But what do I know?” Kim quickly adds, sipping his beer. “I’m not an expert on matters of the heart. I’m not an expert on anything.”

Jean’s tired, sad eyes glimmer a little as they meet Kim’s. “We have to get you hooked up with Trant, then, because he’s an expert on all kinds of things.”

“That sounds like some kind of threat,” Kim says, and Jean laughs.

“Are you in love with Vredefort man?” he says, bringing his cigarette to his lips and shooting a glance at Kim.

“I don’t think I am,” Kim says. He leans back against the wall again and looks out over this small slice of Jamrock, listening to the sounds of the night: sirens, honking horns, bursts of live music, laughter from people walking down the sidewalk toward the bar across the street. “I think he was in love with me, though.”

“Poor Vredefort man. Sounds like you did a number on him.”

“Believe me,” Kim says, “I know.”

“You didn’t answer my question from before.”

“Which one?”

“Do you like the 41st?”

“I do,” Kim says honestly. “I have more to do than I did at the 57th… I like that. I like the energy.”

“It’s not too chaotic?” Jean says, his eyes searching Kim’s.

“Not yet,” Kim says. “Give me another week or so.”

Jean smokes more and nods.

“So is this a common thing, these parties?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jean says. “These happen all the time. I don’t usually host, but yeah. The 41st actually is a family, in that shitty true-blue workplace family way… you know, you get paid dirt and you work a hundred hours a week and you know all your coworkers’ family members, and you can’t unionize because you drink with your boss on the weekends and you fucked his daughter once.”

“Speaking from personal experience?”

“No, speaking from McCoy’s personal experience.”

Kim laughs at this. “He _is_ actually a good cop, isn’t he? McCoy? He has to be a legend for a reason.”

“He’s very good at what he does,” Jean says. “He’s very good at, you know… things the brass likes. Things the Coalition probably likes. He calms unrest well.”

“You don’t think that makes a good cop?”

“It’s a part of it,” Jean says. “But McCoy lacks curiosity. I’ve never understood that about him… how one can be an incurious cop.”

“That does seem odd,” Kim says. “Almost implausibly odd. How well do you know him?”

Jean grins. “You’re doubting my profiling?”

“No,” Kim lies.

“Fine, I’m probably a little biased.” Jean’s cheeks hollow as he takes a drag, and his smoky exhale is slow. “He’s one of Harry’s enabler friends… used to drink with him constantly, really egged him on. That didn’t bother me as much back when it was happening, but the worse Harry got, the more I started to resent him, I guess.”

“Understandably so.”

“And he thought I was _lame_ for trying to get Harry to drink less, when we first got partnered. He made that very clear to me.”

Kim nods in understanding.

“It’s a very weird thing,” Jean says, “when you’re on the precipice of losing someone you love all the time, and when you express that anxiety, the other people in that person’s life try to tell them you’re just being controlling, and they should ditch you.”

“Less weird, more awful,” Kim says.

Jean puts out his second cigarette. “I would move on if I knew what was good for me, but obviously I don’t.”

“If life were about moving on, we’d all be a lot better at it,” Kim says.

Jean nods. “You give me a little hope,” he says.

“I do?”

“Yeah. You… the person Harry was in Martinaise with you... the fucking phasmid…” Jean lifts one shoulder in a stiff shrug. “Hope.”

Kim is quieted and flattered by this. He finishes his beer and crushes the can into a flat disk under his foot, then picks it up. “You should get back to your party, detective.”

“Jean. Call me Jean, we’re not at work.”

“I don’t want to,” Kim says apologetically.

He laughs. “Vicquemare, at least.”

“That I can do.”

/

One beer and one cigarette is enough to mellow Kim out to the point where he can humor the raucous inanity of the drunk cops upstairs, who are now playing a drinking game that appears to involve throwing centims at each other. Chester has vacated the armchair by the fireplace, so Kim takes up residence there while Jean joins the conversation in the kitchen.

“Kitsuragi,” Mack says, a few minutes after he’s sat down.

Kim nods at him in acknowledgement.

“Can I ask you something?”

“No,” Kim says.

Everyone else in the living room looks up from their drinking game, as if now curious to see how this will play out.

“I’m kidding,” Kim says to Mack, who looks relieved. “What do you want to ask?”

“Are there a lot of guys like you at the 57th?” Mack says.

“Guys like me?”

Mack gestures vaguely at his own face.

“What, Seolite _?_ ” Kim says. “No, why would there be?”

Mack shrugs. “I don’t know. You are.”

“Mack,” Chester says, “your powers of deduction are astonishing.”

Mack gets red-faced and heaves a centim at Chester, who catches it.

“I’m not representative of the entire 57th,” Kim says. An understatement if he’s ever delivered one. He felt like an alien there. He feels like an alien here, too, but for some reason it’s okay. He’s an alien among aliens, here.

“We know plenty of guys from the 57th, dumbass,” Sundance says to Mack. “None of them look like him.”

“Do we?” Mack says. “Who do we know?”

“Well, we don’t _know_ them,” Sundance says, “but we know _of_ them.”

“What made you want to join the 41st?” Maggie says to Kim, looking genuinely curious.

Kim can’t tell her the truth, in part because he doesn’t know what the truth is. What he does know is that his time with Harry in Martinaise was some of the most fun he’s had as a cop in years, but fun is not a reason to leave your precinct.

“It’s a great station,” Kim says diplomatically. “And I wanted a change.”

They seem to accept this answer.

“You wanna play a drinking game with us?” Sundance says. “I was about to start a round of Filippian.”

“Ooh, _yes_ ,” Chester says, digging a beer out of the ice chest beside the couch.

“How does that work?” Kim says.

“You get a pack of cards,” Sundance says, “and everyone pulls a card, and every time someone gets a face card, everyone drinks.”

“But half the pack is face cards.”

“Yeah, it’s like fifty-fifty odds that everyone’s gonna drink every turn.”

“You know what, I’ll just watch,” Kim says with a smile.

/

Kim’s diagnosis of the party as a fuck-party was right — by 12:30, everyone has paired up and gone home. Maggie leaves with Sundance, Mack leaves with Elaine, and Trant leaves with a dark-haired woman who Kim surmises is an ex of Jean’s, based off of the brooding looks he keeps shooting at them.

Kim guesses that the other cops and women pair up similarly, but he doesn’t pay attention as they’re leaving, because around midnight he and Chester realize they’re both TipTop heads. This leads to them tuning the radio to race coverage and listening intently until Chester, who is profoundly drunk, falls asleep in the chair he’s sitting in.

Jean, who was stuck at the door saying goodbye to people for about half an hour, shuts said door on the last departing couple and comes over to them. “Chester,” he says, “you can’t sleep here.”

“Mmm,” Chester says, without opening his eyes. “I might throw up.”

“If you throw up in my apartment, I’ll murder you.”

“Drag me to the bathroom, then, Vic.”

With annoyance, Jean goes over to Chester and yanks him out of the chair like he’s hoisting a corpse out of a river, then drags him to the bathroom and tosses him inside, shutting the door behind him. He comes back over and takes the seat that Chester was in, putting his feet up on his coffee table. “Hi,” he says to Kim.

“Hi,” Kim says.

“Did you have fun?”

“I did, actually.”

“Good.” Jean sounds pleased. “You want another beer?”

“Nah. Two is perfect.” Kim falls quiet, listening to the radio, then sighs in defeat when they announce that his guy, Revachol’s Kerwin Rechtman, was so badly injured in an earlier crash that he’ll have to retire. “Shit. You can turn that off, I don’t want to hear any more of that.”

“That’s right, Harry mentioned you were a car guy,” Jean says, leaning over to flick the radio off.

“Did he?” Kim says. “I didn’t realize he even registered that.”

“Yeah, I think some things are starting to penetrate.”

As if Harry has been thus summoned, they hear a key in the lock, and then Harry pushes the door open.

“There he is,” Jean says. “Captain Sober. How was your meeting?”

“Great,” Harry says, glancing down as he teeters in his snakeskin shoes while stepping out of them. “They had donuts.”

“Yeah, not really the point, but whatever gets you there,” Jean says.

Harry looks up and sees Kim. “Kim!” he says, pointing at him. Kim waves in reply. “Anyone else still here?”

“Chester is,” Jean says, as Harry comes over to him and leans in close to him. “So, careful…”

Harry kisses Jean on the mouth, then draws back, smiling. Jean stares into his eyes with an inscrutable expression. “Careful, huh?”

“Yes,” Jean says.

Harry kisses him again, then kisses him on the forehead. “I’m not scared of Chester.”

“I am,” Jean says, half-heartedly pushing him away. “Scared of him running his mouth, at the very least.”

“You’re obviously not worried about me,” Kim points out.

Harry drops a key in Jean's lap and then goes over to the kitchen, patting Kim on the arm as he passes him. Jean starts to rubs his forehead between his eyes. “No, of course not, you wouldn’t run your mouth.”

“How can you be so sure?” Kim teases him.

Jean drops his hand and looks at Kim, seeming amused. “If I’ve totally misjudged your character, I have to leave the RCM anyway, because that would be a pretty stunning fuck-up on my part.”

“Shit,” Kim says. “You got me, I don’t really care what anyone does outside of work.”

Jean smiles at him, and then the smile fades as he looks over at Harry, who’s now standing in front of the open refrigerator. “Get out of the kitchen,” he says to him. “I haven’t had the chance to de-alcohol it.”

“I’m just looking for food,” Harry says. “But you don’t have any.”

“What are you talking about? The fridge is full of food.”

“It’s all stuff you have to cook.”

“That’s what food is,” Jean says in disbelief.

“But I don’t want to cook, I want to eat.”

“You know, Harry, you may spend all your time here, but you don’t actually live here,” Jean says.

“Give me a key and I’ll start paying rent and get some real food in this fridge,” Harry says. “Hot dogs or something.”

Kim settles back against the couch, his drowsy eyes closing slightly, comforted by their bickering.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Jean says. “How was your old phasmid woman?”

“Jean,” Harry says, turning to him with scandalized eyebrows, “you are so rude and dismissive. Her name is Lena.”

“ _I’m_ rude and dismissive? You are the rudest man in the whole world! This is exactly how you used to talk, about everyone!”

“Well, I’m a changed man.”

“Oh, are you? How is _Lena_ , excuse me?”

“She’s great,” Harry says, coming back over to them and leaning on the back of the couch. He seems animated by energy, which is weird, because it’s very late and Kim is so tired he’s wondering if he’s even going to be able to make it down two flights of stairs and into his bed. “We talked about the phasmid for hours and hours. She and Morell are going to go to the island with traps, once the situation in Martinaise is a little less weird.”

“You mean the Coalition surveillance?” Kim says.

Harry nods. “I mentioned the aerostatics, and she said when they went up on Monday, the sky was full of them. It made them nervous to even hang around, let alone go set up traps.”

“Have we heard anything else about the nightclub?” Jean says. To Kim, he says, “Have you heard from Soona?”

“Nothing new,” Kim says. “Just what I told you a few days ago, that she said the jamming stopped after she went into town and mentioned it on a phone call to her programming team.”

Jean snorts. “Right. Not at all suspicious.”

“No, not at all. But she’s been able to transmit her data to them. Whether or not the MI comes around looking to take custody of it remains to be seen.”

“And what are they going to do with it?” Jean says. “Look at it and say, oh, the world is ending, let’s warn everyone? No, they’ll just kick those kids out of the church and… I don’t know. Bomb it, or something.”

“Well, they can’t shut up everyone who knows,” Kim says. “Especially since Harry keeps telling everyone he meets about it.”

“The people should know,” Harry says, with a serious look.

They’re interrupted by the sound of Chester retching violently in the bathroom. Jean makes a face and turns the radio back on, turning the dial until music comes on.

/

Kim, who’s been eating takeout all week while in the process of moving, spends a meditative Saturday morning grocery shopping. He goes to one of Jamrock’s classier grocery stores, which is located in a building that was formerly a warehouse, so is massively tall with loft windows all around that pour in sunlight. He takes his time, wandering around, squeezing tangerines and poring over cereal boxes.

When he’s home and putting things away, his phone rings; he squints at it from across the room in dismay, and yet it continues to ring anyway.

Very few people have his new number, though, so he sets the bag in his hand on the kitchen counter and goes over to the phone, picking it up. “Yes?”

“Kimothy,” Harry says in greeting.

A realization is beginning to dawn over Kim: he is not going to have a peaceful weekend. He may never have an entirely peaceful weekend again. This is a source of massive dread with a small kernel of comfort inside it — the comfort of being needed.

Kim is used to being needed in his capacity as a cop, and almost nowhere else. He’s an orphan whose care was alternately the responsibility of various family members and of the state, and he has no kids himself, no wards. He’s had mentees, but they move on, as everyone does. Andrew, the erstwhile Vredefort adman, has claimed at times to need him, but Kim always knew he didn’t really. This is a large part of why he let Andrew leave: to prove that to both of them. Go north and seek your fortune, and you’ll see that you can get along fine without me, once your heart has healed. Maybe you’ll even be better off for it.

Harry is the first person in a long time, maybe ever, who’s really, _really_ needed him. Of course, Harry needs everybody right now — he’s like a newborn foal that hasn’t gotten its bearings yet and is still staggering around. But he grabbed onto Kim particularly hard.

“Yes,” Kim says again.

“Can you consult with me on something?”

Kim brings the phone over to his couch, which he had pushed up against the largest window in his apartment. He kneels on the couch and rests his elbows on the back of it, peering out the window, watching kids play in the common space below. “What is it?”

“It’s Jean, I’m worried about him.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, but he hasn’t gotten out of bed today.”

Kim checks his watch: it’s two-thirty, now. “Is he awake?”

“Yeah, he’s awake on and off, he just doesn’t want to get out of bed. He usually goes running in the morning,” Harry adds, sounding fretful.

It’s clear he’s clinging tightly to the scant collection of facts he’s assembled about Jean, such as: 1) LOVES ME 2) HATES ME 3) RUNS IN THE MORNING, and any disruption of these facts is disturbing to him.

“Well, people don’t go running every single day of the week,” Kim says, as his cop brain whirs into action. “Off days are normal. Is he responsive?”

“Yeah, he keeps telling me to fuck off.”

“Are you sure he isn’t just hungover?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “I don’t know what a hangover looks like.”

“Haven’t you been hungover for about a month now?”

“I know what it feels like, yeah, but not what it _looks_ like.”

Kim lets out a soft sigh. “I get the feeling you want me to come upstairs and check on him myself, and you aren’t going to leave me alone until I do that.”

“Can you please?”

“If you insist, but I’m sure he’s fine. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“A prince among men,” Harry says.

“Nothing of the kind.” With this, Kim hangs up.

When he’s halfway down the hall to Jean’s apartment, Harry flings the door open as if he was watching for Kim out of the peephole, or maybe listening for his footsteps.

“Good morning,” Kim says.

“Hi,” Harry says. “Welcome, doctor.”

“I cannot stress to you how much I am not a doctor.”

Harry beckons Kim in. “You know, the only memory I’ve recovered from my childhood is one of a doctor making a housecall when I was sick,” he says.

“Maybe that was when you had polio,” Kim suggests, picking up a few empty beer cans that are littering the living room floor and carrying them over to Jean’s trash can, which is nearly full.

“Oh, shit,” Harry says. “I think you’re right. I feel like I was pretty catastrophically sick. At death’s door, or whatever they call it.” He sounds bizarrely chipper about this, like he’s talking about something that happened to a character on an hour-long radio drama.

Kim goes over to Jean’s bedroom door, which is shut, and knocks. “Detective,” he calls. “It’s Kitsuragi.”

From behind the door, Jean groans in annoyance, then says, “Did he drag you up here?”

“Drag, no,” Kim says. “Invite, yes. Can I come in?”

“Fine.”

Kim opens the door. The overhead light is on, but the blinds are shut; Jean is lying facedown in the bed, his head sideways on a pillow. His one visible eye levels a glare at them both as they come in.

“I’m just trying to sleep,” he insists.

“Fifteen straight hours is too much sleep,” Harry says. “I definitely believe they taught me that at cop school.”

“As much as Harry is not a reliable source of medical expertise,” Kim says, “that is a lot of sleep. You hungover?” He comes over and sits on the edge of the bed, keeping a polite distance from Jean like he’s a feral cat.

“A little,” Jean says. “I’m just tired. I’m having a tired day. Is that allowed?”

“Sure,” Kim says, his tone overly jocular.

He knows Jean is depressive — Harry announced this to him the other night when they were at work. “Jean is depressed in a medical way!” In Harry’s defense, Kim probably could have figured that out without his help, given enough time.

Jean lifts his head from the pillow, then, sitting up on his elbows in bed and doing a slight seal pose. “Do you think I’m _suicidal_?”

“I’m just doing due diligence.”

“I’m not suicidal! _He’s_ suicidal!” Jean stabs a finger in Harry’s direction.

“I’m not suicidal,” Harry exclaims. “The guy I was _before_ definitely sounds like he was suicidal, but he, you know, successfully killed himself, I guess. Now I’m a different guy, who’s not usually suicidal.”

Kim ignores Harry, who is hovering in his peripheral vision at the foot of Jean’s bed, looking like a massive, absurd bird of prey in his RCM cloak. “Can I ask you a few questions?” he says to Jean. “And when I’m done, you can tell me to fuck off, if you want.”

Jean flops back onto the pillow. “Fine.”

“Do you feel like you’re a danger to yourself or others?”

“I’m a danger to Harry only,” Jean mutters.

Harry makes an affronted noise.

“Detective,” Kim says.

“No, I am not a danger to myself or others.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“No.”

“Do you have racing or repetitive thoughts?”

“Oh, my god, you’re doing the psych patient screening on me?” Jean exclaims. “Did you not think I would recognize this?”

“I’m just asking some questions,” Kim says, even though he is absolutely doing the RCM’s standard psych patient screening. “Do you have racing or repetitive thoughts?”

“No!”

“Do you feel hopeless or consumed with despair?”

“I feel hopeless that this interaction will ever end,” Jean says. “Otherwise, not really. Not more than usual. I’m just tired.” His voice cracks on ‘tired’. “Can I be tired for a day?”

“Of course,” Kim says, then hesitates. “This isn’t because of our conversation last night, is it?”

Jean turns over onto his side and looks up at Kim, smiling, which is a relief. “Yes, lieutenant. You talked me into a despair from which I’ll never recover, and my blood is on your hands.”

“Very funny.”

“What conversation last night?” Harry butts in.

“None of your fucking business,” Jean says immediately.

Kim nudges him. “Can you sit up for me?”

Jean rolls his eyes, but sits up, shoving his pillow against his headboard so he can lean against it. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot like he’s been crying, with dark circles underneath them, but Kim doesn’t notice anything significantly off about him. No pallor or weird pupils.

“Can I take your vitals?” Kim says.

Jean nods, and Kim pushes Jean’s hair out of the way so he can press the back of his hand to his forehead, which is a normal temperature for foreheads. “You’re not feverish.”

“I know,” Jean says drily.

Kim extends his hand, and Jean puts his wrist in it. Kim slides his thumb up the warm delta of Jean’s radial artery, then presses his index and middle fingers into the skin of his wrist, feeling his pulse and counting it out as he stares at his watch.

“Your pulse is slow,” he remarks.

“It always is,” Jean says. “I’m in good shape, I have a low resting heart rate.”

“Bradycardia can make you feel dizzy and weak.”

“I don’t feel dizzy and weak, I feel sad and tired.”

Kim lets go of Jean’s wrist and brings his hand to Jean’s throat, searching for his carotid artery with his fingers and finding it quickly. Jean submits to this with nothing more than a flicker of an eyeroll.

“That’s a little better,” Kim says, looking up from his watch.

“Satisfied?” Jean says to him.

“Yes,” Kim says. “I’ve done my job, and you’re in no immediate danger. You might want to eat something, though.”

“I’m genuinely not hungry,” Jean says.

“You want something to drink? A cup of tea?”

He shrugs. “Only if you were already going to make yourself tea.”

“I could go for a cup of tea,” Kim says, turning to Harry. “Detective?”

“I would love tea,” Harry says. He shoves his wrist at Kim. “Can you take my pulse? That looked like fun.”

Kim takes Harry’s wrist in his hand. Harry runs hotter than Jean, almost alarmingly so, and his pulse is rabbit-fast. Kim counts for thirty seconds, just to make sure.

“Are you _on_ something?” he says to Harry, his brow knitting.

“No, no,” Harry assures him, and he seems to be telling the truth. 

“Okay, then that can’t be right.” Kim beckons him. “Let me take your carotid.”

Harry leans down toward Kim, and Kim presses his hand to Harry’s throat, finding his pulse faster than he found Jean’s. Again, it’s insanely fast.

“Fucking shit,” Kim says. “Harry, I don’t even know how you’re alive. You should go to a doctor.”

“I’ve been seeing Gottlieb, and all he does is tell me to take magnesium! I think he works for the magnesium guys or something!”

“Magnesium can only do so much when your heart has been enlarged to the size of a cat by drug and alcohol abuse,” Jean says, sounding more resigned than angry.

Harry looks alarmed, so Kim assures him, “Look, you seem otherwise pretty much unkillable at this point… so maybe you just need to go on beta-blockers, or something.”

“You think my betas need blocked?” Harry says.

“Yes. Definitely.” Kim slides off the bed, turning to Jean. “What kind of tea do you have?”

“Black and green,” Jean says. He’s already lying down again, curled around his pillow like it’s a life preserver. “Tea bags are in the cabinet closest to the sink. Thank you.”

Kim goes back out into the apartment, with Harry on his heels. He finds two boxes of tea and pulls out two packets of green, one black — the green for him and Harry, and the black for Jean.

“I don’t get black?” Harry says, leaning against the sink beside him.

“The last thing you need is caffeine,” Kim murmurs, grabbing Jean’s electric kettle and opening the faucet to fill it. He watches his hands work under the soft afternoon glow of light coming from the window over Jean’s sink. “Since I’m here, do you want to discuss case stuff a little? I know you and Jean are still working on finding a suspect in the Albrecht murder...”

“Yeah, that’s taking _forever_ ,” Harry says. “There’s so much, like, reading and paperwork and phone calls involved.”

“That’s how homicides usually are,” Kim says. “You don’t usually solve a murder by running around talking to drug addicts and drug traffickers, get shot, and then wake up to a perfect ballistic trajectory having been handed to you by a spy on the run.”

Harry sucks his teeth. “Fucking bullshit.”

“I know. I enjoyed Martinaise, too.”

“Let’s just leave the RCM,” Harry says, lowering his voice. He pokes Kim in the chest with a finger, then points to himself. “You, me, Jean, we leave, we form a PI agency, and then we go to Martinaise and solve all their mysteries.”

“Like what?” Kim says, setting the kettle on the counter and plugging it in.

“Like, their missing husbands and their drug trafficking, and their lynchings.”

“I think they usually only have those things once in a blue moon, though.”

“Is the moon sometimes blue?” Harry says, sounding alarmed.

“No, it’s a saying.”

“Oh. Well, what about the police raid on the church?”

“I don’t know,” Kim says, turning around and leaning against the sink, folding his arms. “What about the police raid? Did we ever look into that?”

“No, I think we got caught up in other shit as soon as we got back.”

“Worth taking a look into on Monday then, I think.”

Harry extends his fist to Kim’s. He bumps it, and Harry makes an exploding gesture with his hand, making Kim laugh.

“I’ll stay for a while,” Kim says, thinking of Jean’s kindness to him last night, and how he mentioned he likes having people around. Maybe it’ll help him to have two people in the other room, talking. Kim’s always found that comforting, himself.

“Great,” Harry says, grinning at him.


End file.
